


how the heart bends

by prosodiical



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:04:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5513288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosodiical/pseuds/prosodiical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But beyond what Matthew had done for him Will remembers the kindnesses: a fresh piece of fruit at dinner, an extra blanket at night, the gentleness of his hands when Will was forced into straitjackets and cuffs, and it's enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how the heart bends

**Author's Note:**

> Written for anon for the Hannigram Holiday Exchange.

Will's wrapped up in a scarf and beanie, breath frosting in the cold and watching his dogs run around when he notices the car driving by. It's an old, beat-up thing, something that looks like it's seen better years, and when it turns into his driveway Will hisses a breath through his teeth to see who it is. He whistles; the dogs come bounding back, and he shoos them inside. "Go on, good boy," he says, almost absently, and the door is barely shut behind them when Matthew Brown steps out of the car.

He looks thinner than he had, a tight gauntness to his cheeks that speaks of recovery and detainment, of time lost between them measuring in months, years. "Hello, Mr. Graham," he says, hands in his pockets, an oddly expectant look on his face, and Will scoffs and looks away.

"Did you want me to thank you in person?" he says. "I've paid my dues to you."

"No," says Matthew. "I heard you paid my bail - I wanted to thank you."

"In person?" Will says, doubtful, derisive. "I know who you are, Matthew Brown - and I know we're nothing alike. Find your solace elsewhere." He turns back to his door, hand on the knob, but Matthew covers the strides between them in a moment. His hand lands on Will's arm, a touch separated by layers and layers of cloth, and Will tilts his head, eyebrows raised. Matthew shakes his head.

"It's not that," he says, "or, not only. I know," and he smiles self-deprecatingly, "I was only your hands, for the moment. But - we're tied, Mr. Graham. You can't deny that."

Will can, he thinks; it wouldn't be difficult, to step back and close the door between them for good. But beyond what Matthew had done for him Will remembers the kindnesses: a fresh piece of fruit at dinner, an extra blanket at night, the gentleness of his hands when Will was forced into straitjackets and cuffs, and it's enough. "Fine," he says, "what do you want?" He raises his eyebrows and opens the door, gestures freely. "Did you want to come in?"

Matthew studies Will's house like it's a crime scene, eyes flitting from place to place as he carefully holds out his hands to the dogs sniffing him out. Will's done enough, lived enough to not feel self-conscious about the dog fur on the couches, the boat motor parts in varying stages of repair lying around; instead he steps toward the kitchen and pulls out a bottle of whiskey, two glasses. When he returns Matthew's pulled out a bag of dog treats, store-bought, the smile on his face almost surprised at the dogs eating them with all evidence of enjoyment.

"Not a dog person?" Will says, and sets out the glasses, pours them each a shot. Matthew glances at him, obviously weighing the benefits and costs of lying, but ends up shaking his head.

"Never had the chance," he says. "You pick up strays, don't you?"

Will's mouth quirks in half a smile. "No dog deserves to be left out in the cold."

Matthew meets his gaze; there's an odd bemused pleasure, empathy in his smile. "You reach out to them," he says. "I can understand that." Will doesn't miss the undercurrents, the comparisons Matthew's obviously making in his head, but he sighs and downs his drink, stares into his empty glass.

"So," Will says, "what is it, really? Why are you here?" He can read it in every line of Matthew's body, the way he leans forward and reels himself back, the way his eyes catch on Will's mouth when he thinks Will isn't looking, but he wants to hear it himself.

"Because," Matthew says, "I want to be your friend."

Not only, Will knows, but he lets Matthew keep the lie between them.

 

In the end, despite Will's occasional hostility Matthew stops by every weekend like clockwork, unfazed. He starts bringing homemade dog treats, misshapen and imperfect, expresses interest in Will's boat motors and fishing. In turn, Will learns more about ornithology than he ever wanted to, and finds himself slowly starting to relent; he finds himself unconsciously returning Matthew's smiles. It's a strange feeling when he stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, not to be woken up by a nightmare; not to feel that aching empty loneliness he's had ever since - ever since Hannibal.

Will brings it up, once. "I never really thanked you," he says, "for Hannibal Lecter."

Matthew shakes his head. "You never needed to, Mr. Graham," he says. "It wasn't a hardship."

When Will was brought in to the crime scene, he'd barely been able to repress the smile on his face. It wasn't anything on the style of Hannibal's own tableaux of murder, but then Will didn't have his deft touch. Instead it was just Hannibal Lecter, strung up like a martyr on a cross, blood pooled on the floor and looking almost lost as he died, powerless. "He wasn't expecting it," Will had said, and Matthew echoes it now.

"We surprised him, Mr. Graham - or you did."

"Matthew," Will says, and meets his gaze. Matthew's a conflicting riot of emotions, the soft warm fondness of friendship, the slow heady ache of want; surprise, delight, wonder. "I think you can call me Will."

Matthew's smile widens and he says, "Will."

Will isn't drawn to him as a killer, but as a person; Will thinks of the way Matthew's eyes light up when Will gives him time and attention, the way he's willing to live alongside Will's quiet, bloodless life, the way there are no frills or pretensions between them. Matthew is more than half in love with him, Will knows, and Will feels the echoes of it in his own heart, a product of empathy or perhaps of the way Matthew cultivates it like a flower he hopes one day will bloom. He's willing to wait, Will knows, and perhaps that's enough.

So when Will stands, wipes motor oil on a cloth and presses Matthew into the wall, mouth on his, Matthew exhales into it and gives. Will nips at Matthew's lower lip and Matthew chases his mouth when he pulls away, draws him back in with a hand threaded through his hair, and it's no battle but then, it doesn't need to be. "What brought this on?" Matthew asks, breathless, a flush high on his cheeks, and Will can feel his own smile, pleased and fond.

"Oh," he says, "it just seemed like the right thing to do."


End file.
